


Someone to Hear Your Prayers

by cartouche



Category: Blomsterfangen (1996), Hannibal (TV), Kavanagh QC
Genre: Fluff, Kisses, M/M, and grumpy cats, and i had to make the beginning more angsty, and much headbanging, cute tiny shiny babs, just to balance out the fluff, many kisses, my poor blackened heart can't cope, so much fluff it hurt my soul, warning for sock monkeys, with flushed cheeks and greasy hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He drops the keys the first time he tries to fumble them in to the designated slot, curses quietly and bends to pick them up. The door jams in the frame, rusted hinges groaning in protest and he’s sure he’s bruised his shoulder by the time he’s wrestled it open. Inside it’s vaguely warmer, out of the perpetual rain and the biting wind but the stairs are grotty, smelling of piss and rotten pizza and something else he refuses to even think about. Instead he reads the graffiti scrawled over peeling paint and begins to climb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone to Hear Your Prayers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haanigram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haanigram/gifts).



> I'm basically just posting this here because I'm a total slug who needs to remind myself I can actually write. My mojo has vanished, it's very sad.

Dismal. It’s the best word he has to describe the drizzle soaked, grey, hulking mass of the sprawling city. Scuffed feet make contact with an abandoned can, half crushed by hurrying tires, and he kicks it, out of spite, savouring the harsh crash of metal on concrete as he stuffs cold fingers further into tatty pockets and keeps his head hung low. It’s days like this when he half regrets leaving behind Copenhagen, with its brightly painted houses, it’s bridges and water ways, seemingly eternal sunshine beating down on to the cracked wood of bobbing rowboats.

He drops the keys the first time he tries to fumble them in to the designated slot, curses quietly and bends to pick them up. He wishes he had a fag to warm his fingers, but they were running behind anyway, barely scraping together the rent, it wouldn’t do to waste the precious little they had left on something as luxury as that. The door jams in the frame, rusted hinges groaning in protest and he’s sure he’s bruised his shoulder by the time he’s wrestled it open. At least inside it’s vaguely warmer, out of the perpetual rain and the biting wind. His numb fingers tingle with forgotten life, burning at the tips as he rubs them together. The stairs are grotty, smelling of piss and rotten pizza and something else he refuses to even think about. Instead he reads the graffiti scrawled over peeling paint and begins to climb.  _Kingz woz ere_. It’s not exactly inspiring. Still, there’s no point even  _trying_  the lift.

72 steps. 72. Why had he ever agreed to a sixth floor apartment? Oh right, because he was a fucking push over and  _somebody_  liked the view. And what a view. Miles of uninterrupted roofs adrift on a sea of grey concrete, stretching as far as the eye can see. Sure on a good day you can make out the shiny new high rises, glinting in the sun light, modern triumphs of glass and steel, but you really got sick of them where you’re the one risking your neck to build them, and besides, did he really need another reminder of what would never be his?

By the time he reaches his floor, he’s already thoroughly pissed off and just about ready to hit the next person he sees. Life is a waste of his fucking time, bringing nothing more than endless days of hard slog, working ridiculous hours to pay never ending bills. There was a time when he lived for the kick of something running through his veins, the high, blown pupils and a mushy world of light colour, sound, light, touch. But that was long gone, swept away on an unstoppable tide and a vow he promised to keep. With a sigh, he shuffles up to a familiar door. 6C. His little slice of comfort. He can still hear the TV blaring in 6B and Mrs Mellartz screaming blue murder across the hall, and sure it’s not fancy high rise with graffitied stairs and broken lifts, but it’s better than anything he’s ever had before.

He lets himself in quietly, door clicking shut behind him. Inside its warmer, properly  _warm_ , and the flimsy wood is  _almost_  an effective barrier against the noise outside. Toeing off sneakers that are practically falling apart from his feet, he goes through his routine; slide out of coat, yank off fingerless gloves that once had fingers, sling beanie away into some dark and dusty corner. He follows the soft crash of drums through the tiny flat, padding bare foot over threadbare carpet, unable to keep the rising swell of a grin off his lips. As quietly as possible he leans against the kitchen doorframe, watching the scene before him. Mikey’s there, in nothing more than his faded boxers and too big socks, one of his own shirts hanging off him, swamping him in fabric as it dangles down to the tops of long spindly legs, pale and bony. He’s dancing, if it can be called that, long hair flopping ridiculously in time to the music’s strong beat, half throwing himself across the room, socks skidding over the scuffed lino. He can just about make out Oscar in his arms, a terrified ball of grey fur, his yowls drowned out by the scratchy guitar riff screeching out of the speakers.

It’s moments like this that remind him why he’s alive, why he puts up with life’s drudge.

Stepping into the room with a smile lathered over his face, he doesn’t expect to almost crash into the dancing man, still throwing himself around with reckless abandon, wrapping his arms around a lithe body to save them both from crashing to the floor. Breathless laughter meets his ears, along with an indignant  _mreow_ , and blue eyes finally drift up to meet his, still shining with joy.

‘You’re home! Finally!’ There’s a lurch as thin arms release Oscar, who stalks away to lick his wounded pride, and wrap around his neck, making them both wobble precariously. For a moment they fight gravity, wide eyed and teetering, before it finally wins and they both topple to the floor, limbs entangled as they sprawl. Pain blooms slightly, and he might have bruised his ass, but he can’t stop laughing, Mikey’s giggle infectious, his lap full of his little monkey as they lay tangled on the floor. A long moment drags by when all they can do is laugh, watched imperiously by Oscar from the table, before they finally catch their breath. Soft lips press into his in a shy greeting that still hasn’t lost it’s charm, and he rolls them over, barely caring about the state of the floor’s hygiene, just to hear him squeak, hands flailing as Mikey laughs again. It also allows him to press another kiss to his lips, slow and drawn out, a drowning man seeking oxygen. Eventually they part, foreheads pressed together, all lazy smiles and soft gazes.

‘I’m home.’ There’s a spark of mischievousness and he nods, hands finding their way into his hair to tug at long locks.

‘Yes, I noticed doofus.’ Blue eyes roll and he resists the urge to kiss the expression of his face in favour of moving, tugging Mikey into his lap again as he sits up. ‘You’re late though, left me all alone.’

‘Worked an extra shift.’ He cuts off any protest with a chaste peck before he can launch into one of his fiery tirades. As much as he loves his little monkey’s passion, it’s not so nice when it’s directed at him, when his eyes cloud stormily and his soft voice harshens. ‘Don’t. We needed the money, unless you want to stop eating?’ When there’s no response he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out the wad of cash, chucking it on to the shoddy affair Mikey lovingly calls their kitchen table. It’s their  _only_  table, but he doesn’t mention that. ‘Now are you gonna explain to me why Oscar will forever have trust issues about being picked up?’ A light blush blooms on smooth cheekbones and worms it’s way down a slender neck.

‘I was walking home and spotted it in the window of a shop. I know we don’t really have the money to spare but it was dirt cheap I promise.’ The apologetic look slung his way is accompanied by a gesture towards a battered tape player perched by the dirty dishes. He wants to be angry at the wastage of their income, but knows it obviously means something to Mikey, can’t summon the energy to be furious at his actions. ‘They had a few AC/DC cassettes, just like my Dad used to play me and I … I, uhm … Just wanted to hear them again, y’know? Pretend I was little and everything was ok.’ He doesn’t know much about Mikey’s family, doesn’t want to know, to push. All he has gleaned is that it wasn’t good, and he’s more than a little afraid of going back. It’s a feeling they share, understand, bond over. There’s little comfort he can offer with words, he knows, so instead he gently kisses salty cheeks and scoops him up, carrying him into their bedroom and placing him down on the creaking mattress. The curtains are already drawn, and for a moment he fumbles about in the dark, searching for the switch. His fingers close around cool plastic and he flicks it, the room illuminating with a soft multicoloured glow emanating from the strands of fairy lights hung carefully around. After discovering the bedroom light didn’t exactly work, and the price of an electrician to fix it was bordering on extortionate, it was Mikey’s idea to go to the January sales and buy cast off Christmas fairy lights at cut price. Some of the tiny bulbs had already blown, and neither of them were entirely sure the overloaded socket they were all plugged into was  _safe_ , but in a building full of fire hazards, what was one more?

It doesn’t take long to strip out of his tatty t-shirt and holey jeans, clambering on the bed behind his precious little monkey. The duvet is pushed away, a fort of empty cigarette packets and pillows surrounding them. He tries to protest at first; squirming away from the strong arms that wrap around him, before his strength appears to evaporate, replaced with fresh tears.

‘The spaghetti will burn.’ Is mumbled into the crook of an elbow and he huffs lightly.

‘Fuck the shitty spaghetti.’ It’s enough to provoke a choked laugh and he curls closer around Mikey, hating how fragile he appears. Oscar pads into the room and for a moment he thinks the cat has chosen the worst moment to whine about his lack of food before he jumps smoothly on to the bed and deposits something, curling up in a protective ball next to Mikey’s heaving chest. He leans up enough to check the cat hasn’t dumped a dead rat down on the bed, his breath catching when he makes out a tiny knitted body. He reaches over to grab the toy that started this, everything he has, puppeteering soft paws to wipe away tears. Pressing fluttery kisses to the back of Mikey’s neck, he wraps his arms around him, whispering ‘My little monkey’ again and again, a mantra, until breathing evens out and eyelids droop. He listens to the city bustle outside their window, the TV blare next door and Mrs Mellartz faint shouting, and wonders what he did to deserve this bubble of paradise.

Sometimes he forgets he’s not the only one looking for a reason to live. It’s a good thing they have each other.


End file.
